


Sex Sent Me to the ER: The Witcher Edition

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Blue Balls, Broken Bones, Daddy Kink, Dildos, Double-Sided Dildos, Established Relationship, Face-Sitting, Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Humor, Injured Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mechanic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Rimming, Serious Injuries, Sex related Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22628203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: “It’s just a little scratch. There’s no reason to get your panties in a twist.”It had been… four and a half weeks since Geralt had had a ‘minor’ accident on the job and had had a four-thousand pound car fall on his arm. He’d been extremely lucky that ten shattered bones and a few lacerations were the extent of the damage, and that most everything was well on its way to healing just as it should. But that didn’t mean that, over the last few days, he hadn’t been trying to… push the envelope, so to speak, to try and talk Jaskier into something a bit more serious than the occasional hand- or blowjob.A man has needs. And right now, Geralt needs to fuck.AKAGeralt just wants to give his husband a proper dicking. Jaskier just wants his husband toheal. ...Geralt should have listened to his husband.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 408





	Sex Sent Me to the ER: The Witcher Edition

“It’s just a little scratch. There’s no reason to get your panties in a twist.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier stares into the older man’s hazy amber eyes--it’s any wonder the idiot is still conscious, considering the doctor had pumped him full of enough tranquilizers to knock a full-grown horse out cold--thanking whatever god is listening that his idiot is alive and… well, that he’s _alive_. “I don’t think you’re understanding, love. You had a _car_ _fall on top of you_.”

“Mmm…” Jaskier watches as the needle dips in and out of Geralt’s flesh, stitching the most gruesome of his wounds back together. “Just on my arm. It missed everything important.”

The younger man splutters, “Y-Your arm  _ is _ important. Geralt, you could have  _ died _ .” 

The other man blinks lazily, “But I didn’t.”

“Y-You could have lost your arm!” He continues, growing a tad desperate for Geralt to understand the severity of the situation. The other simply shrugs, wincing a bit when this tugs on his stitches. 

“But I didn’t.” He repeats, as if this somehow magically makes everything better. Jaskier could scream.

He’d been sitting on the couch in a pair of Geralt’s boxers, a half-eaten tub of cherry vanilla ice cream tucked between his legs, when he’d received a call from an unfamiliar number. He’d contemplated answering for a few seconds, if only to stick the phone on speaker and let the telemarketer on the other end talk to thin air, but chose to decline the call instead, tossing it onto the couch alongside him and resuming his previously scheduled task of finding something halfway decent to watch. The one thing he hated about working from home was attempting to navigate the perils of daytime television; he liked a good, romantic dramedy as much as the next guy, but a man could only watch so many soap operas without feeling a little piece of his soul leave his body. 

He’d settled on a showing of  _ Once Upon A Time In Hollywood _ , which had only started a short while ago--it was easy enough to pick up the plot, and he settled back into the couch, drawing the soft, royal blue quilt that Geralt’s goddaughter had made him for Christmas over his shoulders and shoveling an obscenely oversized spoonful of ice cream between his lips. A few minutes passed, and then his phone began ringing again. His entire mouth ached as he checked the Caller ID and found it to be the same number as before. He’d declined the call faster that time, irritated that some stranger would continue to interrupt his work (...well, as far as  _ they _ knew, he was working, and as far as he was concerned, there was no reason anyone needed to know otherwise). 

The third time the phone rang, he picked up without bothering to check the Caller ID, poison ready to drip from the tip of his tongue, “Mr. Pankratz? This is Renfri, calling from Grace Mercy Memorial Hospital. I’m sorry to inform you that there’s been an accident--,”

He’d never been more terrified in his goddamned  _ life _ , had scarcely remembered to throw on something more than the boxers and quilt before barreling outside. It was any wonder he’d made it to the hospital in one piece. And lo and behold, his idiot of a husband had been waiting for him with a big, dopey grin on his face, absolutely indifferent to the blood splattered all over the bed, the doctor, and  _ him _ , rambling on about everything and nothing (and saying more than Jaskier has heard in the ten years they’d been together) that he thought the doctor would have even a  _ vague _ interest in. The doctor had explained that he was likely in shock, and would not register the severity of his situation, and wound, until much later. But Jaskier knew better. 

Somewhere along the line, the idiot had convinced himself that he was invincible. This wasn’t shock. It was hubris. Or carelessness. Neither option made him feel particularly good. “When can I take the idiot home, doctor?” He asks with a world-weary sigh.

“Hey, ‘m not an idiot!” Geralt says, just a bit too loud, as he slowly begins to list to the side. Jesus, he’s high as a fucking kite.

The doctor gently nudges him upright, but Geralt keeps going until he collides with Jaskier’s chest with a soft  _ thwump _ . “All his tests have come back clean, so there’s nothing left to do except file the discharge paperwork. In the meantime, there are some sterile towels in the drawer over there, if you’d like to help him clean up some of the blood.”

After the doctor leaves, Geralt turns to him expectantly, “Well? What do you say, Jas… You want to help me  _ clean up _ …” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and in any other circumstances that would be enough to have the brunette bust out laughing. 

“Geralt, this is no place to--,”

“You’re right.” He nods, humming softly. “That curtain definitely doesn’t provide enough cover. We could be interrupted at any moment, and  _ I’m _ the only one allowed to lay eyes on that delectable bum.” He growls, offering his husband’s pert ass a sharp, appreciative  _ smack _ .

“And you almost  _ died _ .”

“I shattered all ten of the bones in my arm and shoulder. That doesn’t quite equate to death, little lark.”

“It’s still not something you can just brush off as a ‘scratch’!” 

“...You’re not  _ really _ considering attempting to withhold sex until this shit heals, are you?” Geralt asks, suddenly sounding one-hundred percent sober. Jaskier bites his lip and looks away, busying himself with the towels. “ _ Fuck _ .”

~~~***~~~

“...You’re such a fucking tease.” Geralt’s head of silver-white hair falls back against the couch cushions, his amber eyes fluttering as a sound, somewhere between a hiss and a moan, rumbles up from his bare chest. 

“I just want to make you feel good, Daddy.” Jaskier purrs, trailing feather-light touches over Geralt’s aching arm, nimble fingers working a sweetly-scented bruise salve into the injured flesh. 

It had been… four and a half weeks since Geralt had had a ‘minor’ accident on the job and had had a four-thousand pound car fall on his arm. He’d been  _ extremely _ lucky that ten shattered bones and a few lacerations were the extent of the damage, and that most everything was well on its way to healing just as it should. But that didn’t mean that, over the last few days, he hadn’t been trying to… push the envelope, so to speak, to try and talk Jaskier into something a bit more serious than the occasional hand- or blowjob. 

A man has  _ needs _ . And right now, Geralt  _ needs _ to fuck.

He knew that Jaskier had to be just as desperate for a proper dicking. He’d been playing the dutiful nursemaid for the last month, ensuring that every one of Geralt’s needs were accounted for… but never allowed his husband to return the favor. And besides, everything he  _ did _ was so goddamned  _ clinical _ , applying just the right amount of pressure and speed and suction to bring him off as quickly and efficiently as possible. A month of spectacularly unremarkable orgasms has left him embarrassingly horny and needy. He’s nearing the end of his resolve.

There has to be  _ something _ more fulfilling that they can do.  _ Anything _ . The damned car didn’t land on his  _ dick _ , after all. If the little lark were to straddle his waist, not unlike he is right now, he could ride Geralt into oblivion without Geralt ever having to lift a finger. Shit, they could probably even pull off missionary, if Jaskier could hold out without being kissed senseless. He could always support himself with the other arm, but… if Jaskier were to accidentally bump him in the midst of his heated thrashing, that would be more than a bit  _ not good _ .

“You alright there, old man?” He grunts at the nickname--he’s not  _ that _ much older than Jaskier--before raising his eyes to meet his husband’s. “Got your head in the clouds?”

“Just… thinking about some things.” He replies, “Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over.” 

Jaskier hums, reaching for the roll of gauze on the coffee table. “How does your arm feel? Nothing burns, right? I tried to keep the salve away from the lacerations, but --,”

Geralt presses a kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, “It feels great. Can hardly tell some dumbass dropped a four-thousand pound metal deathtrap on me over a month ago.” 

“...Funny.” Jaskier slides off of his lap, ignoring the way his cock is straining in his jeans. “I’m gonna start dinner, alright? Do you think that you’ll be okay to put the soft cast back on?”

“Yeah.” He flops back against the couch, making no move to grab for the cast. “Yeah… I’m good.”

~~~***~~~

An opportunity for something  _ more _ presents itself a week later, when Jaskier overfills the oil in his car’s oil tank. The car began spitting out massive clouds of light blue exhaust and  _ vibrating _ whenever the key was in the ignition. Geralt promised to look at it once his husband returned from work, wary of the idiot accidentally blowing himself up just because he didn’t want to bother his injured husband--who was a  _ certified mechanic _ , and who had  _ always  _ been responsible for changing out the oil in Jaskier’s car--with such a menial task.

“Jaskier?” The brunette is pacing uneasily along the side of their garage, keeping a close eye on the jack that’s holding the car aloft. “How the fuck did you manage to overfill your oil tank by  _ five quarts _ ?”

The other man blushes, stammering out a soft, “T-The dash said that the oil l-life was at zero percent, and--,”

“Yes. That means it’s time to tell  _ me _ that you need your oil changed. That doesn’t mean that there isn’t any oil in the car.” He grunts, and something small and metallic hits the ground and rolls over toward Jaskier’s feet. “Get that.”

“R-Right,” he grabs the small washer, just as another metallic  _ clang _ , followed by a soft curse, rings out from underneath the car, “Geralt? Are you okay?”

“Fine.” He grumbles, “Can’t say the same for this shirt, though.  _ Fuck _ .”

When he rolls out from underneath the car, he’s positively  _ soaked _ in motor oil. It’d been… a bit more difficult to remove the plug with only one hand than he’d been anticipating, but he’d never admit to it out loud. He sits up slowly, leaning back against the hood of the car and taking a moment to inspect the damage. Yeah, it’ll definitely have to be relegated to the ranks of ‘work shirts’. Which is kind of a shame, considering he has more shirts that he’s ruined with various car fluids and, on occasion,  _ fire _ , than he has nice, or just plain casual, shirts and --

He raises an eyebrow. How long has Jaskier been staring at him like that? “You need something, Jas? It’s probably going to take about an hour to drain all that oil, so if you need to run errands or something, take the Jeep--,”

“No. No, I…” Jaskier licks his lips, swallowing hard. “That’s not a bad look on you, that’s all.”

“...Thanks?” He’s certain he’s looked worse, but he’s not entirely sure what’s so appealing about a man drenched in motor oil. He’s basically a walking, talking fire hazard. “W-What do you think you’re doing? You’re going to-- _ mmph _ .”

A second later, Jaskier is settled down in his lap, grinding slowly as he ruins his nice, blood-red button down and ebony blazer. But he can hardly bring himself to care about how the other will bitch when he realizes he can never wash the clothes again when the younger swoops down to capture his lips in a soft kiss, gently worrying his teeth over the swell of his bottom lip. Fingers, calloused from years of playing various stringed instruments, slip beneath the hem of his tank top and begin to map a familiar course over the taut muscles of his lower belly.

Jaskier is careful, so very careful, and while Geralt would not ordinarily enjoy being treated like glass, the care with which Jaskier treats him is endearing. His uninjured arm moves to curl around Jaskier’s lithe waist, drawing him closer until their aching cocks brush… His little lark lets out a gorgeously breathy moan as his movements become just a hair more confident, more  _ forceful _ … He breaks the kiss to bury his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, inhaling the thick scent of musk that clings to his hair… And that’s when he hears the  _ crack _ .

Jaskier leaps off of him so quickly, he tumbles over and falls flat on his ass. But he hurriedly scrambles into a semi-upright position, wide, cornflower blue eyes looking the other over for damage. “What the hell was that?”

Geralt grimaces, still hard and aching (just now… in more ways than one) and  _ ready to go _ . “That was my shoulder popping out of the socket. It, ah…” there’s another loud  _ crack _ as it slides back into place, “It’s all good now.”

“B-But… you weren’t even using that arm!” The poor bardling looks to be on the brink of tears.

“You-- _ I _ ,” he hurries to amend, when he sees the look of panic on Jaskier’s face at the thought that  _ he _ could have hurt him. “I just moved awkwardly. That’s all. Besides, if you’re planning on riding me, I don’t really  _ need _ my arms.”

“Oh, I plan to give you the ride of your life.” Jaskier says, grabbing the keys for the Jeep. “Straight to the hospital.”

~~~***~~~

This was an absolutely  _ terrible _ idea--and not just because the last time they’d tried this, Jaskier had suffered through a nasty case of beard burn that had lasted for the better part of a week.

Jaskier stares down at the bit of his husband’s face that’s visible between his legs. The bastard hasn’t shaved since the accident, and he’s wary of letting  _ anyone _ so close to his face with a blade (even if they are the love of his life) meaning that he’s had a month and a half to grow out his beard. And Jaskier can admit, it’s a  _ very _ nice look. And his pleasure-clogged mind tells him that that sinful tongue is worth every moment of suffering for the next five days. But this time, he doesn’t have only himself to worry about. 

He’s sitting astride Geralt’s face, with his tongue pistoning in and out of his quivering channel, doing his very best to keep absolutely  _ still _ . It’s not just because they’re in a precarious position and Geralt needs to  _ breathe _ \-- it’s also because the pads of his feet are resting against Geralt’s massive shoulders, and one good  _ twitch _ would be all it would take to send him careening into a world of pain. He tightens his grip on Geralt’s hair, fingernails digging into the larger man’s scalp, and rocks his hips down against those plump lips to try and force that tongue  _ deeper _ . 

He’s not sure when Geralt moved, or even when he closed his eyes, but all of a sudden one thick,  _ thick _ finger is teasing along his rim, gathering up some of the excess saliva that drips from his hole, down his crack, to slick his thighs and pressing inside. The stretch  _ burns _ , just a bit, but only because it’d been so very long since he’d had any interest whatsoever in tending to anything other than Geralt’s wants and needs that he hadn’t even had time to mess with toys. But that’s okay, because Geralt is nothing if not a dutiful lover. He trusts him to take care of him.

“Ngh…  _ Daddy,” _ the name falls from Jaskier’s lips like a prayer, followed by a high-pitched, keening  _ whine _ as another finger slides in alongside the first. “Y-You know that we can’t… no further than this…” 

Another wet  _ slurp _ follows, along with the positively divine stretch of two fingers working to slowly scissor him open. 

It’s good,  _ so good _ , and he cannot help but fantasize about Geralt getting his pretty little pucker wet and sloppy for his massive cock. It’s not long before a third finger makes its way inside of him, and soon all three are curling, launching into a powerful assault on his prostate that has his thighs  _ quaking _ as he attempts to decide whether he ought to pull off completely or press himself closer. That tongue makes another absolutely  _ delightful _ slurp as his thumb glides along Jaskier’s taint and-- _ his foot slips _ .

Jaskier scurries off of him, rolling back so fast that he smacks his back against the coffee table with enough force to bruise. Geralt’s eyes widen, “Jas, are you okay--,”

“No! No, I’m not okay! I keep  _ hurting _ you.” He says, his beautiful voice reedy, like he’s on the brink of tears.

“It’s not… not  _ that _ bad. You barely touched me--,” he tries to assuage, but his words fall on deaf ears.

“I  _ kicked _ you. I think I know how much I touched you.” Jaskier makes to move, before flinching. He already has a nasty, purpling bruise across the entirety of his back. “Shit. That really hurts…”

“We should probably have that checked out at the hospital.” Geralt says, sitting up slowly and biting down on the inside of his mouth to keep from crying out as his shoulder began to  _ throb _ . “You could have a broken rib.”

“I could have re-broken your shoulder.” Jaskier whispers, his voice broken.

“I doubt it. I’m sure everything is just fine.”

~~~***~~~

Everything is most certainly  _ not _ fine. Geralt has been upgraded to a hard cast, and now Jaskier won’t touch him  _ at all _ . Can a man die of blue balls? He’s not sure, but Jaskier seems hell-bent on finding out…

Geralt is down to his last-resort: a thick, double-sided dildo. 

He presents it to Jaskier like a goddamned sacrificial offering, and Jaskier looks at it like it might burn him… or come to life… or both. It takes a few days of Jaskier staring the sex toy down before he comes to Geralt and tells him that he is willing to try  _ one last time _ , so long as Geralt is willing to agree that, should things go sideways, as per usual, he would admit defeat and led his damned arm heal before they did anything more strenuous than the occasional hand- or blowjob. Geralt would have been an absolute idiot to refuse.

So now, here they are--sprawled out in the middle of their bed, with one-thousand and one pillows propped up underneath Geralt’s injured arm and shoulder to keep pressure off of the limb during their exertions. Jaskier is doing most of the work. He’s stretched out on his back with his toned legs spread wide, his fingers tangled in the soft, blue ombre duvet as he rocks his hips against Geralt’s, working the dildo in and out of his body. There is so much lube on the toy and inside of their bodies that it drips onto the bed, leaving large, dark pool-like stains. 

“Mmph… this is… this is  _ nice. _ W-Why didn’t we think of this sooner?” The muscles in his glutes and thighs  _ burn _ as Jaskier’s ass collides with his, driving the dildo impossibly deep. It could only be better if it was Jaskier’s cock.

“You mean  _ before _ you came in my eye?” Geralt grumbles, breathless. He fists the blankets with his good hand and begins to rock back, meeting Jaskier thrust for thrust. The change in angle causes the toy to brush over his prostate.

“That was an  _ accident _ !” The sharp moan that rumbles from deep within Jaskier’s chest takes some of the bite out of the declaration, “How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t swallow?

“You usually  _ warn _ me-- _ ah yes _ , fuck… right there… harder, harder,  _ yes _ …”

“I, ah…  _ nnn, Daddy  _ please… I tugged on your hair!”

“So? Y-You do that all the damned time! You’re grown, Jaskier, use your  _ words _ .”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk, Mr. I-Communicate-Almost-Exclusively-In-Grunts.”

As they work the dildo between them, Jaskier reaches out to curl his fist loosely around the other man’s cock, offering it a few swifts tugs in an effort to bring him tumbling over the edge. Contrary to what his husband may believe, he  _ did _ feel bad for repeatedly leaving him high and dry over the last several days, and so long as he was only bringing him pleasure (or the kind of pain that sent tingles of pleasure rippling down Geralt’s spine  _ anyhow _ ), he’s more than happy to bring him off by whatever means necessary.

Their thrusts slowly gain speed, loosing all semblance of rhythm as that glorious peak draws nearer. Jaskier is, surprisingly, the first to cum. He paints the duvet in thick strips of white, and promptly collapses in the cooling puddle of jizz, allowing himself a moment to steady his breathing. He doesn’t notice the way that Geralt tenses behind him, though he  _ feels _ the light spasms his cock gives as he cums. His moan is… decidedly less enthusiastic than normal, and when he turns to face his husband, he finds his features contorted in a legitimate mask of pain.

“What’s wrong? What hurts?” The words tumble out of his mouth in a messy heap as he gingerly pulls off the other man and inspects him for damage yet again. He looks like he’s in so much pain, but his  _ shoulder _ is fine.

“Now, uh, don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled you had a terrific orgasm. That’s great. Enjoy the haze.” He draws in a shuddering breath, “But next time, maybe…  _ let go _ of my cock before you collapse like that.”

Jaskier’s eyes drift downward ever so slowly, “...Holy shit.”

“I think you may’ve broken my dick.”

“May?  _ May _ ?” Jaskier splutters, racing out of the room as fast as his post-orgasm sealegs will carry him to grab an instant-icepack from the bathroom. “Here. Use this to ah…  _ numb _ the area while we drive to the hospital.”

“...We’re never having sex again, are we?” He huffs, breaking the gel and placing the cool plastic against his groin.

“Never.” Jaskier agrees readily, grabbing a robe and throwing it in Geralt’s general direction. There is no point in trying to force him into a pair of pants right now.

Geralt sighs, “...At least I got  _ one _ good orgasm out of this.”


End file.
